The Da Vinci Deception (33 page)

Crowds jammed the platform in Florence, jostling, shoving, bidding tearful welcomes or more tearful farewells. Italians cry a lot, Deats thought. A porter claimed his suitcase, then led him to a line of taxis. His hotel was near the Arno on the west side of the city. Immediately after checking in, he went to the house physician and had the cast opened and the irritating stitches removed. The hand remained bandaged, all but his thumb. He marveled that such an ordinary part of the body could be so essential.

In the morning he began the task of locating Eleanor Shepard. It proved to be more difficult than he bargained for. Even the articulate manager of the hotel could not extract a phone number from the telephone company. “There is no listing for a Shepard.”

“She is living in Fiesole,” Deats repeated to the manager.

“A small town compared to Firenze, but there is still no record.”

He telephoned the Kalem organization in New York, but if they knew Eleanor Shepard's address, they were under instructions not to release it.

His only hope was that wherever she was living, a real-estate agent had been involved. He asked the assistant manager for a list of agents and began calling them in alphabetical order. The American Agency Real Estate Office was third on the list and the voice answering the phone belonged to a young American girl who said that Cecilia Grosso handled the rentals for Americans. Deats made an appointment for that afternoon.

Cecilia was a short, bubbly woman who had learned her English in Boston. Her accent was an interesting combination of Bostonese and Milanese.

“Miss Shepard is the daughter of a dear American friend, and I should very much like to pay her a surprise visit.”

“I haven't seen Miss Shepard in several months. She's living in a sweet villa on Via Bosconi.” She talked with her hands and aimed a finger past Deats as if giving instructions. “In the country.” She wrote out the address.

“Thank you, Miss Grosso. Remember now, this is a surprise.”

A caravan of tour buses preceded him into the center of Fiesole. Beyond the piazza the traffic lightened. Cecilia Grosso was correct, Via Bosconi ran along a high ridge and Eleanor Shepard was nearly eight miles outside of Fiesole. He passed the steep drive leading to her villa, noting first the low house in front. He also noted a white-haired woman in a vineyard that ran parallel to the drive.

He made a U-turn and drove slowly to the drive, pulling off the road under the skimpy shade of a silver-leafed olive tree.

Jean Gambarelli saw him leave the car and walk toward her. She waved a greeting.
“Buon giorno.”
A wicker basket was slung under her arm.

Deats turned into the rows of vines. “Do you speak English?”

“Quite well, I think,” she answered with a laugh.

Her basket contained assorted bottles, and she was holding a tube with markings along its length.

“I'm a bit lost,” he said, trying to appear embarrassed.

“We English have a penchant for that—you
are
English?”

“Indeed. London these days.”

“I've observed how tourists react when they're lost. The Germans are too stubborn to admit it, the Americans turn it into some kind of new adventure, and the English come right out asking for help.”

“I confess I'm not so much lost as I'm trying to find a rental property for next year. Do you know of any?”

“Yes. We've a beauty.” She pointed toward the stone villa. “I'd show it to you but it's occupied. I expect it will be free shortly.”

“Perhaps I could see it another time. I'll be hereabouts for a while.” Deats pointed to her basket. “Are you preparing to harvest?”

“I hope so. The sugar's not up and we're already a week late.” She held up the long tube. “It reads barely twenty and we like to be at least twenty-two.”

“I wouldn't know what that means.” Deats moved so he was looking past the woman to the stone villa.

“We call it ‘Brix' and that's a measure of the sugar in the grape. When the juice ferments, half of the sugar converts to alcohol. So, the higher the ‘Brix,' the more alcohol, and with this variety of grape, the better the wine.”

“Thanks for the lesson.” He turned then looked back with a smile. “I really am lost. How best to get to the city?”

“You're headed correctly. Follow the road into Fiesole then look for the signs.”

“Do you expect the house will be available in the spring?”

“I believe so. I'm Jean Gambarelli and you know the address. We usually book through an agent, but you can contact me directly if you wish.”

In the car he recorded the scant information. He looked up to see a maroon Lancia edge out of the courtyard onto the drive. The driver tooted the horn and waved at the woman testing for sugar in her grapes. At the Via Bosconi, the car swung onto the paved road, the tires screeching in protest. Deats caught a glimpse of the driver's deep red hair. He saw the license plate and recorded the last four digits. The car straightened and sped off. Miss Shepard was a reckless driver or in one hell of a hurry, he thought.

His old Renault was no match for the Lancia. At the first intersection he continued straight toward Fiesole. He didn't know the Lancia had turned left and, taking the back roads, would be in the center of Florence before he could inch his way through Fiesole's traffic-jammed streets.

He lost her because he had rented an ordinary-looking car that, regrettably, gave ordinary performance. Back in Florence he upgraded to a muscular Fiat. He returned to the hotel, satisfied he had found Eleanor Shepard, but aware his hunt for Waters was still on. Eleanor was the key. He put a fresh tape in his recorder.

He played it back, then asked the hotel operator to connect him with the Gambarelli residence.

“I failed to introduce myself this afternoon. The name is Beal... Geoffrey Beal. I've been thinking about your charming villa. Can you tell me more precisely when I might take a look at it?”

“Sooner than I'd expected. My pretty tenant returned with an American guest, and apparently they'll be driving to Milan's Linate Airport on Friday.”

“How delightful,” Deats replied jauntily. “I shall call you on that very morning. Cheerio.” He smiled as he put the phone down. “That's a bit better,” he said aloud.

He recorded his findings. He was certain Eleanor's friend was Steve
Goldensen, and that he was returning to Paris or going to another European city. If he were returning to America, he would fly out of Melpenza, the overseas airport. Not Linate. Still, he was worried that Eleanor might drive to Milan, and he'd lose her in that city of roundabouts and one-way streets. He had expected a message from Jack Oxby telling him how the extradition proceeding against Waters was moving along.
“I could use some help from the local police but too many Italian cooks . . .”
He didn't complete the sentence.

In the evening he left the hotel and walked along the Arno. When he returned, he had conceived a strategy and by midnight he had fleshed it out.

The next day was Thursday. Early in the morning he found an automobile supply store and a watchmaker. Then he visited the Lancia dealer at 61 Via di Novoli.

In the afternoon he drove to the Linate Airport south of Milan.

As he turned onto the A1 Autostrada, he noted the odometer and the time. The needle of the speedometer turned until it hit 120. Except for in the tunnels, he maintained the speed for the next two hundred and seventy-one kilometers.

At the turnoff to the arterial leading to the airport he slowed. He was looking for a wide shoulder where he could pull off and park. Signs with arrows indicating the turn to Linate appeared. At the second sign, about a mile from the turn, two trucks had pulled off to the side. Airport traffic moved to the right lane, proceeding more slowly than the outer lanes. He pulled to a stop in front of the first truck and watched the traffic for nearly half an hour. Satisfied, he swung back to the highway and proceeded into the airport complex.

For an hour he drove over the latticework of roads, familiarizing himself with every one, then with every parking area alongside the terminal building. He parked, then entered the wing serving intra-European flights.

He recorded the flight numbers and departure times for the airlines flying from Milan to Paris. He would have wagered that Goldensen was ticketed on either Alitalia or Air France.

Next he drove to the airport exit, again measuring time and distances. He continued to the Autostrada, retracing his route to Piacenza,
a half hour south of the airport. From the hotel he phoned Alitalia, gave his name as S. Goldensen, and apologized for misplacing his tickets and asking if he could be told which flight he was on. He waited for what seemed an interminable time, then was told he was on the 12:30 flight and to come early and be reticketed.

Friday morning he was up early, returned to the Autostrada, and set off for the airport. It began to rain. He estimated that Eleanor and her friend would arrive at the airport entrance between 11:30 and 11:45.

The rain steadied to a light drizzle, the traffic sending up sprays of water to cloud the air. He arrived at his post at ten o'clock and by eleven had trained himself to recognize the grill and headlamp configuration of a Lancia from a quarter of a mile away. He could pick out the color at about five hundred feet, the license number—those small numbers and too many of them—he could not read accurately until the car was nearly abreast of him.

The target time of 11:30 ticked away.

Then 11:35 . . . 11:40 . . . 11:45 . . . Thoughts of taking an alternative action were crowded out by the fear that Eleanor and Steve were not coming to Linate at all, that Goldensen's plans had changed.

Then he spotted a Lancia in the middle lane, its turn signal flashing. His eyes focused on the license plate. He raced the motor and started moving as the car sped past. They had arrived.

He turned onto the road in front of a long transport truck and was blasted by a screaming air horn. The Lancia turned into the airport and slowed. Deats fell back and followed. At a “Y ” intersection the car hesitated. A right turn led to the departure level at the terminal, a sign pointed left for parking. They turned left and Deats sighed in relief.

They turned off to the first parking area. Deats drove past them, stopped, and watched as they walked toward the terminal. Then he pulled alongside Eleanor's car.

It was 11:52.

From a paper sack he took a ring of keys. The Lancia mechanic had demanded a hundred and fifty thousand lire, twice the amount Deats eventually had paid him. Another fifty thousand paid for a brief lesson in the electrical system of a Lancia. None of the first half-dozen keys fit the lock... nor did the next three. He was not counting the seconds, but knew he was losing precious time. The next key slid into the lock and he opened the door. He reached under the dashboard and pulled on the hood release lever.

From the sack he extracted a length of wire. Near one end was a timer fashioned by the watchmaker and next to it was a two-inch-long metal cylinder. He lifted the hood, then attached one end of the wire to the ignition coil, the other end to a bolt in the car's frame. He did it with his left hand, using only the thumb on the other.

When Eleanor started the car, the timer would be activated, and after four and a half minutes, a solenoid switch would open and electricity flowing from the ignition coil to the car's frame would cause the system to short out. Deats calculated the engine would stop approximately sixty seconds after Eleanor left the airport.

He moved his car a dozen spaces away and waited. It was one o'clock when Eleanor returned. She immediately placed a road map against the steering wheel, but to Deats's consternation she continued studying the map after starting the engine. The timer was ticking. Then suddenly she backed out and, with wheels spinning, sped out of the parking area as if she were leaving the pit at the Grand Prix in Turin. Deats followed, his eyes alternating between the Lancia and his watch. At three minutes after the timer kicked on, she was through the pay booth and accelerating. Deats followed. In twenty-six seconds Eleanor's car would be powerless.

He closed the distance between them just as she turned onto the arterial heading west and away from the center of Milan.

Fifteen seconds to go.

She accelerated into the fast-moving traffic and held her position. Deats was a half-dozen cars behind. The allotted four and a half minutes had elapsed and the Lancia's speed approached a hundred and thirty kilometers per hour. Then the left-turn signal began flashing. “Something's wrong,” he said aloud. “Something's damn well gone wrong.”